A Little Weed That Wouldn’t Stay Little

I can still vividly picture those times when I would be facilitating a group in rehab, the circle of chairs creaking like a bunch of old men trying to stretch, and the air carried the particular smell of bleach, sweat, and hope. I used to sit with fellows who were fighting for their lives, often hoping they didn't push their loved ones a little too far this time around. Some were coming off years of heroin, others were clawing free from alcohol or pills. They all had their stories, and they all bore the marks of hard living.

Now and then, a newcomer would shuffle in, eyes red and scared, saying he was there because he just couldn't stop smoking weed. And I remember a few of the old hands, good men, battle-scarred and often proud of it, giving each other that sideways smirk. As if to say, Really? You're here for pot? Like a man limping in from the battlefield with a paper cut.

But addiction doesn't measure by the pound or the punch. Everybody in rehab is fighting for their life. Some folks get tangled in a net of syringes and whiskey bottles, while others get caught by something softer that still pulls just as hard. A trap is a trap, no matter what the ingredients were that built it.

I think about that now when I read what's been happening since we made marijuana legal across half the country. What used to be whispered about in parking lots and basements is now sold in glass jars with clever names like "Moon Pebble" and "Grandma's Ashtray." It's become the friendly face of a modern vice, with no hangovers, no arrests, and considered no big deal. Except it is. It's actually a really big deal.

The studies are rolling in, now that we have been living with legal pot for a heap of years now, and they tell a story that isn't as mellow as the marketing. Car crashes are climbing in states where weed is legal. ER visits, too. More folks are showing up places panicked or vomiting, or just plain confused. We're learning that the brain doesn't always play nice with high-potency THC, that psychotic breaks aren't just something that happens in movies. And behind all the laughter and "it's just weed, man" shrugging, there's a slow creep of dependency that looks an awful lot like every other addiction... just better disguised.

It's strange how something that once symbolized rebellion has become so domesticated, tucked between wellness gummies and fancy teas. Somewhere along the line, the old warning lights dimmed. But I've seen too many faces in too many folding chairs to mistake quiet danger for harmless fun.

Maybe the real story here isn't an argument for or against legalization, but rather about having our personal freedoms. To remember that freedom doesn't come from a dealer or a dispensary. It doesn't come neatly labeled with strain percentages or tucked into a gummy shaped like a teddy bear. Real freedom comes from facing whatever has its claws in you and saying, not today. Freedom isn't only about what you're allowed to do. It's also about what you're able to walk away from.

That seems to be something this country of ours keeps forgetting, over and over. We get so busy legalizing and labeling things that we forget liberation isn't something you can sell by the ounce. You can legalize a product, but you can't legislate peace. You can grow fields of cannabis from coast to coast, but you can't farm character. That has to be cultivated in the hard soil of our hearts, one painfully honest decision at a time.

So, if you're reading this and thinking marijuana is no big deal, I'll tell you this much: it used to be my job to help men survive their addictions and find a little peace this side of Heaven, and I never met anyone who planned on desperately needing help because they indulged a little bit. The road to rehab is so often paved with such tiny, little compromises. And sometimes, it starts with something that promised to make life just a little more fun, a little more enjoyable, or help make it a bit easier to deal with.

And if you're standing somewhere out there on the edge tonight, wondering if it's too late for you, let me tell you, it isn't. Hope still lives in the cracks of broken things.

And very often, that's how the light finally gets in.

Well, that's today's dispatch, from the dusty corners and the quiet places. Keep the faith, friends, and pass it on.